


Stupid Love

by The_Sinking_Ship



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BAMF Harry Potter, Dom/sub Undertones, Harry Potter's motorcycle, Head Auror Harry Potter, Humor, M/M, Ministry Worker Draco Malfoy, Porn With Plot, Powerful Harry, Rimming, Snarky Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:34:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27676112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Sinking_Ship/pseuds/The_Sinking_Ship
Summary: Harry Potter, how does Draco Malfoy hate thee? Let me count the ways.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 161
Kudos: 883





	Stupid Love

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was generously betaed and gently beaten into submission by [ DevilRising ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilRising)& [PhenomenalAsterisk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhenomenalAsterisk). Any remaining errors are my own.  
> Many thanks!!

There was nothing particularly likable about Harry Potter. In fact, there was more to _dislike_ about him, because Potter was a generally unlikable person.

Anyone with eyes could see that Potter thought himself rather special. It was in the way he scowled through Ministry functions in his honour, and in the way he barreled through speaking engagements with a painfully inappropriate amount of candor. It was in the way he refused to give interviews to publications that bashed his friends, and the way he volunteered almost every weekend at the Hogwarts reconstruction, as if the staff made up of literally all the most powerful wizards and witches in England couldn’t manage it perfectly fine without the help of some nineteen-year-old who barely passed his NEWTS.

Hating Potter became something Draco did unconsciously, passively. It was like breathing, like digesting, like blinking. Draco just hated Potter. He’d see Potter’s stupid face in the papers again, or he’d run into him with his foolhardy band of do-gooders at the new pub in Diagon Alley, and the feeling would just be there, as familiar as the feel of his wand in his hand. And Draco would think, there’s Potter, the bloke I hate.

There was a time after the war when Draco managed to avoid Potter almost entirely. Draco got a job working as an apprentice to a Potions Master and spent most of his time in a nice, dark potions lab, only venturing out to meet with Pansy and Blaise at the pub or the newest bar. Maybe Draco drank a bit too much, and maybe he was a little too free about who he took home, but those were mostly good times. Blurry times, with missing hours and sometimes days, but they were carefree and, more importantly, Harry Potter free.

Potter was still in the papers all the time, but Draco stopped reading them. Sometimes Draco didn’t think about Potter for days and it was bliss. But then, without fail, he’d appear again, like a bad omen, and do something awful and Potterish, like volunteer with Wizards for Werewolf Wellness or donate obscene amounts of galleons to underprivileged squibs, and Draco would be forced to remember how much he fucking hated Harry Potter.

It got significantly worse when Draco took a job in the Potions Regulation Department at the Ministry of Magic and he was forced to watch Potter strut around every day like he owned the place. Potter had broadened, grown tall, and wore big, heavy combat boots and scarlet robes with the Head Auror badge pinned to his chest. He grew out his hair until it hung down to his jaw in loose curls, that he took to tucking behind his ears or in a band at the back of his neck. He looked absolutely ridiculous.

Sometimes Potter would look at Draco across the atrium, or in line at the canteen, and his squinty little eyes would narrow, his mouth would go tight, and Draco knew that Harry Potter hated him right back. Some things never changed, and that was almost a comfort.

And yet, the scrutiny made Draco self-conscious. He found himself selecting his clothes more carefully, standing straighter, attempting to laugh attractively at whatever nonsense joke whomever he was speaking to had made. He wanted Potter to see Draco and know that he was _fine_ – no, he was bloody _fantastic_ , and that he didn’t think about Harry Potter and what a bastard he was, hardly ever.

It went on that way for years. Draco worked too much, drank and partied a little less, still took home too many blokes, and hated Harry Potter.

It was another beautiful day to wake up and hate Potter when Draco’s best friend in the entire world came right up and stabbed him in the back when she said, “Draco, darling, there’s something you must know. I’ve been shagging Dean Thomas for going on a month now and I refuse to apologize for it. Now, put your coat on, we’re going to a pub in Southwark with Dean and his friends. And before you ask, yes, Potter will be there. Do try to behave yourself, I’ll not have you ruin the best fuck I’ve had in years.”

Draco snarled and snapped, but it was no use arguing with Pansy Parkinson, particularly not when it involved her getting properly fucked. She could be bloody single-minded.

The pub was not Draco’s usual fare. It was the type of dark, dingy tavern that stunk of lager, replayed past Quidditch matches on the wireless, and boasted toilets with unknown health hazards. Draco much preferred the posh little tapas bars near his flat in Soho, or even a sleek cocktail do in Chelsea. But this was equal parts grimy, boring, and painfully heterosexual. 

They were all there – the merry band of Gryffindors – drinking pints and shouting nonsense at each other from a table in the corner. Draco’s dislike for Potter’s friends had cooled somewhat over the years. In fact, he and Granger got on fairly well. They’d turned a corner when Draco helped her gather the research to pass a bill that restricted the use of unicorn by-products in commonly used potions as a part of her crusade against misuse of magical creatures. Granger was clever, politic, and Draco could appreciate her particular brand of ruthlessness. Even Weasley wasn’t so bad once you got to know him. Sure, he was boisterous and obnoxious, but could also be sort of amusing after a few too many pints. And he was always willing to talk Quidditch. Finnegan was a dolt, but a pleasant enough sort of fellow...if you could get past the shouting and the lighting things on fire. Longbottom and Lovegood were quiet and Draco didn’t know them well, so it was easy not to hate them.

They weren’t friends or anything, far from it, but Draco didn’t get that nasty, creeping sickness in his gut around Weasley, Granger, or the rest as he did with Potter.

And Potter was there, just as Pansy predicted. Potter was always fucking there. He’d abandoned the uniform for once, but kept the stupid boots. There was a hole in the knee of his jeans and his t-shirt must have seen the bad end of a cleaning charm because it had shrunk so much that it strained across Potter’s chest. The whole pathetic excuse for an ensemble was set off with a beat-up leather jacket, Potter’s signature dark eyeglasses, five o’clock shadow, and riot of raven curls. He looked a right mess and Draco was completely embarrassed for him.

Pansy immediately went and sat with Thomas and they started snogging noisily. Draco rolled his eyes and pulled out the chair next to Granger.

“Draco,” she said, nodding at him over her glass of Elven wine.

“Granger, how goes your progress with the Undetectable Poisons regulations?”

“Marvelously, to be honest. Thanks ever so much for the report on Chizpurfle Carapace. Saved me an age on research.”

“My pleasure,” he said. He waived to a bartender and ordered himself a double Dwarven Vodka with soda.

Draco tried to keep his attention on his conversation with Granger, on his drink, on the game of wizard darts that was going on across the pub – anything to avoid the fact that Potter was glowering at him, and Draco could feel it. And sure enough, when he looked up from his drink, it was straight into Potter’s death glare.

Circe’s tits, it was going to be a long evening.

Harry Potter was particularly difficult to ignore for a variety of reasons, one of which being that he had an obnoxiously loud laugh. It was excruciating. Sometimes he would snicker– an odd little giggle that started high in his throat and came out his nose. It was indelicate and disgusting and Draco hated it. Other times, the laugh would burst out of him, straight from the chest to punch Draco in the face. It was deep and throaty and drew eyes every time. It was such a repulsive sound that sometimes Draco’s stomach did a sickly little flip-flop whenever it startled out of him.

In an effort to avoid looking at, thinking about, or acknowledging Potter, Draco ended up consuming entirely too much alcohol. It wasn’t his fault, really. The friend who dragged him to that godawful pub in the first place spent the whole evening with her tongue down Thomas’ throat and left Draco _alone_ with a bunch of ruddy Gryffindors.

Draco and Granger got into it over the efficacy of butterfly wings in healing potions and she’d begun waving her hands wildly, voice shrill, hair frizzing and frantic. Draco, of course, maintained his composure completely, only shouting a bit, scoffing cleverly, and spilling half his vodka on Potter while demonstrating the proper stirring technique used in the Bulgarian variant of the Potent Exstimulo Potion. At which point, Weasley packed up his wife and carted her home, leaving Draco without the only tolerable company at the table. Finnegan, Longbottom, and Lovegood all drifted away while Draco squinted at his tab, throwing what was probably far too many coins at the barkeep. When Draco stumbled back to the table, it was to find that Potter was the only one left. Aside from Thomas and Pans, of course, but they were a lost cause.

Potter just glared at Draco with one dark brow arched. Draco snagged his coat and made a very good attempt at getting an arm into each of the sleeves, with only mild difficulty, to which Potter snickered and shook his shaggy head.

“You able to get home alright, Malfoy?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you. Thank goodness you checked, Potter. Not sure how I managed the trip to my flat all these years without you.”

Potter chuckled and it made his nose scrunch up in a very unattractive way. Gods, how Potter managed to win the Most Eligible Wizard award in _Witch Weekly_ every year, Draco could not fathom. He hadn’t the faintest idea what everyone saw in the inelegant clod.

“My mistake,” Potter said. “Won’t happen again.”

“I’ll not be your damsel in distress, Potter. Go find someone else to rescue because I am entirely in possession of my wits,” Draco said, at which point he stumbled into the nearest chair and nearly upended it, managing to catch himself at the last moment in a feat of total grace and elegance. Gods, he should have been a dancer; he was entirely wasted in a lab.

“O-kay,” Potter said, gripping Draco’s elbow in one hand and righting him, even though it was entirely unnecessary. “How about I give you a ride home?”

“No!” Draco burst out. “Absolutely not. I will not go anywhere near that fucking death trap. I’d rather take my chances on a splinching.”

You see, Harry Potter rode a Muggle contraption called a motorcycle. It was an insane two-wheeled monstrosity that growled louder than a jungle cat and was all gleaming metal and shiny black paint. Draco had no idea how Potter stayed atop it without magic, but he did, and he looked like a complete twat astride it.

“I promise to keep both wheels on the ground. Come on,” Potter said, and tugged on Draco’s elbow, which he was still holding for some unknown reason.

Once out on the kerb, Potter handed Draco a big plastic bucket with an odd strap and said, “Put this on. And don’t do anything stupid like flailing, if you don’t want to crash.”

Draco just held the plastic bucket and glared at Potter, to which Potter laughed, took the silly thing and plonked it onto Draco’s head, fastened the strap beneath his chin with nimble fingers, then gave the side a rap with his knuckle that nearly made Draco stumble.

Draco blew away the hair that was mashed down over one eye with a puff of breath. Potter grinned at him crookedly, put his own bucket on his head, and threw a leg over the machine. He kicked the bit of metal that kept it standing and the thing settled between his thighs.

“Are you coming or what?” Potter asked.

Draco sighed and copied Potter’s movements, only struggling a little due to the tightness of his trousers. “Why can’t you just apparate or use the floo like a normal wizard, Potter? Must you always be so contrary?”

“Oh come on. The bike is fun,” Potter said over his shoulder.

“I’m certain you’re mistaken,” Draco grumbled.

“How is it possible that your accent gets even more posh when you’re sloshed?”

“It’s called a proper command of the English language. How is it that you manage to sound like a complete caveman even though you’re sober? Gods, you _are_ sober, aren’t you? I have no intentions of dying at the hands of your idiocy and the ineptitude of Muggle mechanics tonight.”

He couldn’t see Potter roll his eyes, but he knew he was doing it because Potter didn’t just roll his eyeballs, he rolled his whole stupid head.

“Just shut up, will you? And hang on.”

Draco did not take commands from Harry Potter and crossed his arms over his chest while Potter kicked the bike to life with one booted foot. The thing rumbled and vibrated so hard it made Draco’s teeth chatter.

“I really recommend holding on if you don’t want to ruin the arse of those tight trousers when you fly off,” Potter shouted over the din.

Draco pinched two fingers onto the bit of leather jacket that lay open at Potter’s waist. It would have to do because there was no way that Draco was going to touch Potter. He felt Potter’s exasperated chuckle more than he could hear it and then they were lurching forward abruptly.

Harry Potter was a bloody maniac. He nearly flung Draco off the stupid thing! There had to be some laws about speed and polite conduct amongst Muggles that Potter was flagrantly disregarding because they were going far too fast, zipping around cars and curling around corners at a dangerous lean. Draco was forced to plaster himself to Potter’s back to prevent himself from falling to his death, which, on second thought, was probably Potter’s plan all along. 

The wind that blew past them was abrasive and Draco had to tuck his chin against Potter’s shoulder to avoid the brunt of it. Potter didn’t smell so bad for a hideous moron. It was a bit like the forest after rain or fresh cut lumber covered in sticky pitch – woody and sweet and fresh all at once. Draco suppressed a shiver because the wind really was quite cutting, and he was a bit chilled. It had precisely nothing to do with the way Potter’s hair was tickling against his cheek, that it was quite soft, and smelled rather nice.

Potter, the absolute bastard, must have noticed, because the next thing Draco knew, he was suffused in the pillowy warmth of a heating charm that was no doubt Potter’s doing. It was an incredibly rude thing to do, to just wipe your filthy magic all over another person that way without asking their permission first. Especially since it was Potter and his wandless magic appeared so potent that it left an odd tingling feeling in Draco’s fingertips.

At last, they pulled up in front of Draco’s flat, which was a very posh little one-bedroom on the second floor of a historic building in Soho.

Potter halted the bike and flipped a switch that cut the sound of the machine, leaving behind a deafening silence that made Draco’s ears ring.

Draco stumbled off the bike gracefully to stand on the kerb, straightening his clothes. He removed the godawful head bucket and tossed it to Potter, who caught it easily and shrunk it down to tuck into his pocket without even touching his wand. Draco rearranged his hair while Potter leaned forward on the bike, resting his elbows casually on the handlebars and appraising Draco with that stupid narrow-eyed glare.

“Do I even want to ask how you know where I live, Potter?”

Potter snorted. “Probably not, but I’m inclined to tell you anyway.”

“Go on then. Tell me about how you are desperately stalking me like sixth year again.”

“Actually, it’s your neighbour, Mrs. Wilkinson.”

“That old bint? She told you where I live? I’ll be having words with her.”

Potter did the stupid snorting giggle thing that Draco loathed. “No, she calls the Aurors near once a week. Usually it’s nothing, she thought a couple cats in heat were a werewolf attack. Accused the bloke in the flat across from her of growing illegal Fluxweed, but it turned out to just be some poorly irrigated cilantro. She even called us on you once. Strange noises coming from your flat. Said, ‘I’m worried he might be in danger, dear.’ I think she’s rather fond of you.”

“And you didn’t even look into it? Gods, Potter, I could have been in mortal peril, not that you lot would care.”

Potter raised a brow. “Oh, we looked into it. In fact, I looked into it personally. You were...ah…fine.”

“I was?”

“And so was the other bloke who came stumbling out an hour later.”

Draco felt the heat rise in his cheeks.

“I suppose I’m glad to hear you’ve been so efficient in your work, Potter. Clearly the crime rate in London is so gloriously low that the Head Auror can spend an hour of his time lurking around my fucking flat.”

Potter laughed at that. He knocked the bucket hat off his head with one hand and dragged a hand through his curls. “Maybe I was worried.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because, Potter, we hate each other. And you don’t worry about people you hate, obviously.”

Potter frowned and tilted his head to one side. “I don’t hate you.”

“Hah!” Draco exclaimed. “Right, Potter. So, it is because you _do not_ hate me that you shoot daggers out your eyes at me from fifteen meters away every time I cross the Ministry atrium. And I suppose it is from all the not-hating-me that you avoid me in pubs and never speak to me at functions or galas.”

“Is that what you think?” Potter asked. He looked rather befuddled and there was a line between his brows that was probably going to cause a hideous wrinkle from all the scowling he did and would hopefully mar his ugly face even further. “Do you hate me?”

“Yes! Yes, Potter. I do. I hate you very much. I thought you would have figured as much out by now.”

Potter looked down at the bucket hat in his hands. “Why’s that?”

“Why?” Draco sputtered. “Are you serious, Potter? Have you met you? You might be the most hateful individual I’ve ever known. I mean look at you, you’re a mess. You strut around in those tatty jeans and leather jacket like some sort of Muggle rockstar. Your hair is slovenly, you’re never clean-shaven, and you wipe your mouth on your sleeve when you drink frothy beer. And that’s saying nothing of your obnoxiously loud laugh, or that odd sound you make when you’re pleased with something.”

Potter looked a bit startled. “I beg your pardon?”

“Hmmm,” Draco mimicked the soft, melodic little hum he’d heard whenever Potter ate food, or Granger said something clever, or Lovegood complimented his aura. “That’s it. Hmmm. It’s annoying. And I hate it.”

The corners of Potter’s lips were twitching. “Do you now? Tell me more.”

“It would be my pleasure. Your t-shirts are too tight, and your top left incisor is crooked. You chew your lips bloody when you’re stressed, you drink too much caffeinated tea, and it makes you a menace, everyone thinks so. And do you know why I know all this?”

“I really, truly don’t.”

“It’s because I hate you, Potter,” Draco said righteously. “I hate everything about you. Everything you do grates on my nerves. I can tell you’re in the room before I even lay eyes on you because I can _feel you there_ , being infuriating.”

Potter did the hysterical throat giggle and Draco wanted so badly to give his bike a little kick and send him sprawling.

“Well,” he said. “That’s really something.”

Draco just flapped a hand at him. “Thank you for the ride home, Potter. It was jarring and dangerous and I could have been killed, which I’m sure would have pleased you immensely.”

Potter laughed and it echoed down the street. Draco got that nasty sick feeling again.

“You’re welcome. I’m glad we had this talk,” Potter said, still grinning like a fool.

“Are you? Is that because you’re an idiot who loves to be insulted?” Draco said with a dramatic roll of his eyes.

“No, it’s because I see right through you, Malfoy. I had a hunch before, but now I _know."_

“What do you _know_ , Potter? I assume it is precisely nothing, as per usual.”

Potter hummed and bit his lip, then gave an odd smile that was even more sickening than the laugh. “I’ll see you around, Malfoy.”

Potter put his hat back on but didn’t buckle the little strap. He kicked the bike to life with a roar and went speeding down the street at a horrifying speed.

Draco just scoffed and stumbled elegantly into his flat, where he fell asleep face-first on the sofa.

*****

The next morning, Draco woke with the uncomfortable creeping feeling that he’d done something very foolish. The previous night was a bit of a blur, a series of indistinct memories that he only vaguely recalled. He remembered Potter trying to murder him on the back of a Muggle contraption, to which Draco responded with the appropriate combination of wit and disdain, though he couldn’t remember exactly what was said. Potter, weirdly, seemed to find it amusing as all hell, but he was also an idiot and Draco didn’t waste his time trying to decipher Potter’s mercurial moods.

By Monday morning, Draco had nearly forgotten about the encounter altogether, until he felt Potter glaring at him across the Ministry atrium. Potter was standing amongst a cluster of Aurors, all buttoned-up in their scarlet robes with their leather wand holsters and golden badges, looking smug and important.

Draco hurried toward the lifts as he had absolutely no desire to even grace Potter with a sneer that morning. But he could feel Potter’s eyes on him, and it was causing his cheeks to flare and his skin to itch, so he gave Potter an unhurried glance – just an, “Oh, you again, not that I can be bothered” sort of look.

To which Potter _winked._

He bloody winked at him! And his mouth did that appalling little half grin that showed his crooked tooth and Draco _hated him._ But Draco was a remarkably busy man with things to do and people to see, so he just rolled his eyes at Potter, very coolly, very nonchalantly, and hurried toward the lift. He broke into a little jog at the end, but that was only because he was indeed in a hurry. And very busy. Not at all because he was trying to get away from Potter.

Draco didn’t think about Potter at all while he made his way through the stack of paperwork that had accumulated over the weekend. He was so busy not thinking about Potter that when Potter appeared in his doorway, he let out a very dignified and entirely justifiable yelp.

Potter chuckled and Draco considered throwing a paperweight at him.

“Sorry, am I interrupting?” Potter asked, an elbow propped against the door jamb, a paper takeaway cup in one hand.

“You certainly are,” Draco replied.

Potter was likely hard of hearing because he ignored Draco and stepped right into his office and began inspecting things. He ran a finger across the books on the shelf, smirked at a photograph of Draco and Pansy drinking wine in Toulouse, peered into the cauldron on his work table that contained a half-finished draught of Mopsus Potion. 

“Is there something I can help you with, Potter? Or did you just come here to wipe your dirty fingers on my things and keep me from my work?” Draco asked, his tone clipped.

“Hmm?” Potter looked up and Draco gestured for him to hurry the fuck up with whatever torture he intended to inflict.

“Oh, I just came to bring you this.”

Potter placed the paper cup directly in front of Draco. Draco stared at it as if it would burst open and bite him, because this was Potter, who hated him, and he absolutely could not be trusted. 

“What is this?” Draco asked, recoiling from the cup.

Potter shrugged and shoved a hand in one of his pockets. “It’s coffee. A cappuccino. From that fancy café off Victoria Street.”

Draco quite liked that place. They had excellent pastries and their almond croissant was one of his most favourite things in the world.

Draco pushed the cup away with the tip of his wand. “Do you think I’m stupid, Potter? I’m not drinking that. Did you really just think you could drop poisoned coffee on my desk and expect me to drink it like I was born yesterday?”

Potter huffed a laugh and set one arsecheek right on top of Draco’s desk. Right there! Where Draco’s papers were! His arse! Unbelievable!

“It’s not poisoned, Malfoy. Just espresso and milk. Nothing untoward,”

“Untoward?” Draco grumbled. “I’ll show you untoward if you don’t get your arse off my desk.”

“Oh will you?” Potter said, his eyes going bright and sparkly.

“Get out of my office, Potter. I’m busy. And take this with you,” he said, prodding the cup again.

“Nope,” Potter said, stepping away from Draco’s desk. “It’s yours. Try it. Might calm you down.”

“If by ‘calm down’ you mean it causes my heart to stop and no one would ever suspect a thing, because I’m me and you’re _you.”_

“Merlin, you’re difficult,” Potter said with a shake of his head.

“And yet you’re the one disturbing my workday. Don’t you have things to do, Potter? People to arrest? Budgets to overspend? Lives to ruin?”

Potter smirked hatefully. “Didn’t you know, Malfoy? The only person I’m interested in ruining is you?”

“Quite right, I’m sure,” Draco scoffed. He always knew Potter enjoyed making him miserable. “Now get out.”

Potter sighed noisily and ran a hand through his hair, setting it wildly on end, but he was sort-of grinning.

“See you tomorrow, Malfoy.”

“I’ll try to remember to ward my office against you then.”

“You just try it. See how that works for you.”

*****

Draco warded his door against Potter the next day, but Potter went ahead and blasted his way through anyway. Potter’s magic was annoyingly powerful, and Draco hated that about him. If Potter were smart, which he wasn’t, he wouldn’t brandish it about so brazenly. But that was Potter in a nutshell– brazen, particularly in the way he dismissed Draco’s carefully designed wards as if he were swatting his way through an inconveniently placed spider web.

“Hullo,” Potter said, grinning and clearly quite proud of himself.

“What is it this time, Potter?” Draco said with a heavy sigh. He didn’t even bother to look up from his parchment. He was in the midst of designing a love potion antidote and really didn’t have the time for Potter’s antics.

Another paper coffee cup and a little blue box were placed in front of Draco. He paused, only for a moment, blinking to clear his vision because Potter had very possibly just placed a lethal explosive on Draco’s desk. Potter really wasn’t very clever if he thought he could get away with attempting murder in broad daylight in the middle of the ministry, but then again, he was Harry Potter.

“Go on, open it,” Potter said. He went about leaning on Draco’s desk this time and Draco caught himself glaring at Potter’s arse where it was just millimeters from the stack of very important forms he was meant to complete that afternoon.

Potter poked the box closer to Draco with one finger. He grinned. Draco wanted to slap his hand away.

Draco took out his wand and spelled the box open and sat back, anticipating something wretched to leap out at him. Instead, he was greeted with the sweet, warm scent of puff pastry and marzipan.

“Almond croissant, right? The girl at the shop said it was your favourite.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “What are you playing at, Potter?”

Potter shrugged oafishly. “I was just trying to do something nice.”

He pushed himself off the desk and flopped into the chair opposite Draco. He crossed one booted foot over his knee and fiddled with the laces.

Draco glared at Potter, who really shouldn’t have been sitting and looking so bloody settled. “We don’t _do_ nice. Is it poisoned like the coffee?”

“The coffee wasn’t poisoned. You really didn’t drink it?”

“Absolutely not.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “It isn’t poisoned. Neither is the coffee.”

“So, what, you’re trying to fatten me up? Give me cavities? Seems a bit below your station, Potter, but it must be something.”

Potter tilted his head to one side. “People don’t do nice things for you very often, do they?”

“No one ever does a thing without expecting something in return. So, what is it that you want, Potter?”

“I don’t want anything.” He hesitated and tilted his head in the other direction. “Well, that’s not exactly true.”

“Hah! I knew it,” Draco said, vindicated. “What is it you’re buttering me up for, then? Must be particularly sadistic.”

“Well, I thought I might convince you to drink the coffee with me sometime. Not here. But there. Or somewhere else. Anywhere you like.”

“You want to watch me drink poisoned coffee? You’re sick, Potter.”

“Merlin’s bollocks! For the last time, it isn’t poisoned, you daft git!”

Draco narrowed his eyes. Potter was shouting at him, but he was also smiling a bit and mussing his ridiculous hair with one hand. It was odd and Draco didn’t trust it for a moment.

Potter leaned forward and put his elbows on Draco’s desk. “You’re a very distrusting person, aren’t you?”

“I possess the appropriate amount of distrust for a person who has Harry Potter loitering around their office for no apparent reason.”

Potter hummed in that obnoxiously pleased little way. “That’s fair enough, I suppose. Then I guess it’s a good thing I’m patient.”

Draco snorted. “You? You’ve never been patient a day in your life, Potter.”

Potter’s face split into a grin. “You might be right. Which is why I’m hoping you’ll see how hard this is for me and take pity.”

Draco leaned into Potter as well, because two could play this silly game of intimidation. “I do _pity_ about as well as you do _patient_.”

Potter’s eyes did the dangerous sparkling thing that Draco despised.

“Drink your coffee, Malfoy. Eat your croissant.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Potter,” Draco said, crossing his hands primly in his lap.

Potter licked his lips once, and then pushed himself up from his chair. He strutted to the door in a swirl of scarlet robes, where he paused with one hand on the jamb, and turned back to Draco. 

“By the way, what I lack in patience, I make up for in persistence. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And with that, he was gone. Draco dumped the coffee in the bin but allowed himself half the croissant. Draco supposed that as far as things with Potter went, death by pastry was probably one of the kinder fates Potter could dole out.

*****

Potter did not show up the next day. There was some disaster in Hackney involving a gang of illegal potions dealers and Potter was called into the field. Or at least that’s what Draco overheard in the canteen when he was very casually cruising past a group of Auror trainees as they discussed it in animated tones. It wasn’t because Draco was eavesdropping or anything.

It was no matter. It was a relief, honestly. Draco had an incredibly productive day and his desk remained clear of poisoned coffees and Potter’s presumptuous arse. And if Draco made more trips past the DMLE than necessary, it was only because it was on the way to the canteen and Draco needed another cup of tea, some biscuits, a file from Mildred in accounts payable, oh, and would you look at that? Draco’s tea was empty again, he ought to get some more.

Potter didn’t return for the rest of the day and Draco didn’t worry a bit. He just packed up his things, waved goodbye to his colleagues, and set off for home only one hour later than he was scheduled. He enjoyed a lovely, quiet evening with a new book and a glass of wine. He thought about going out – he usually went out on Fridays. Sometimes Pansy or Blaise would join him, but Draco didn’t particularly feel like company and went to bed early. 

Draco was called into work on Saturday. Apparently, Potter’s case involved the confiscation of a variety of illegal substances that had to be sent to the lab for testing. It was supposed to be Draco’s day off, but he didn’t mind. He didn’t really have anything else on and was rather interested in seeing how the Invigoration Draught he’d started on Thursday was coming along.

Draco was absorbed in the careful extraction of a testable amount of the unidentified and very-likely lethal potion when Harry Potter walked by the lab. Draco wouldn’t have even noticed him if Potter hadn’t practically skidded to a stop just outside the entryway and proceeded to shout, “You’re here?!”

And when Draco squeezed the pipette he was holding a touch too hard, squirting it all over the worktable, it was because Harry Potter had shouted at him, and not at all because Potter wasn’t wearing his uniform and was prancing around the Ministry of Magic in worn-out jeans and a Holyhead Harpies t-shirt that had suffered the same fateful shrinking charm that apparently afflicted his entire wardrobe.

The unidentified potion quickly identified itself by burning clear through the worktable with a hiss.

Draco leveled Potter with a glare. Potter had just enough sense to look sheepish and apologetic, but not enough sense to fuck right off, instead walking right into the lab and grinning at Draco like he hadn’t nearly caused him to burn his face off.

“Hi!” Potter said brightly. “It’s Saturday.”

“I take back everything I’ve ever said about your subpar intellect, Potter. You’re a veritable genius.”

Potter snort-laughed. “I mean that you don’t work Saturdays.”

“How would you know?” Draco said, narrowing his eyes.

Potter shrugged and leaned over the worktable to peer through the acid-burned hole to the floor. He extracted his wand and looked as though he meant to prod at it, but Draco managed to fling an Expelliarmus at Potter before he made contact. Of course Potter, being Potter, managed to counter it with barely a flinch, but at least he pulled his wand back.

“Don’t touch it, you idiot,” Draco snapped. Potter had no sense of self-preservation if he went around poking at potions in restricted labs. Not that any sort of restrictions ever seemed to apply to Harry bloody Potter.

Potter rolled his eyes so hard Draco thought he might have strained himself. Potter pointed his wand at the hissing, steaming substance once again and cast a diagnostic spell – and a fairly thorough one at that.

Armadillo Bile Mixture. Draco would know those signatures anywhere.

“Interesting,” Draco muttered, jotting down a couple of very important, very clever notes onto his parchment.

“I’ve a sudden craving for curry,” Potter announced.

Draco boggled. Potter was clearly deranged.

“You want?” Potter asked.

“Do I want what?”

“Curry?”

“No, I don’t want curry! Are you touched in the head?”

“Been on stakeout for hours and I’m starved. And that stuff smells a bit like turmeric.”

“That _stuff_ is Armadillo Bile Mixture, a highly dangerous corrosive,” Draco said, aghast.

“I know.”

“Oh, do you?”

“Yeah, it burned through the table. It also burned through the containment vessels at the crime scene. Made a bloody mess. And it has Acromantula venom in it, which always smells like turmeric.”

“If you already identified it, why am I wasting my time testing it when I have a dozen more to go.”

Potter shrugged. “They need it verified by an expert. And you’re the expert, not me.”

“Quite right.”

They stood in silence for a moment while Potter shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and stood there, rocking back on his heels.

“Run along, Potter!” Draco snapped.

Potter’s eyes narrowed, then he grinned and, thankfully, left. Draco got back to work. He was going to be there all night at this rate, and he kissed goodbye the hopes of getting home early enough to enjoy a glass of wine and the Kestrels game on the wireless in his pyjamas.

Draco worked his way through two more of the substances before Potter reappeared. His arms were piled with plastic bags filling the room with the scent of…was that….

Fucking curry.

Draco slammed his wand down on the worktop with veritable force.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Ooh, cursing at me already, are we? This is going better than I expected. See, I was expecting more along the lines of ‘Potter, I daresay! What _ever_ are you doing?’”

Draco recoiled. “Are you _mocking_ me?”

“Yes, you posh git. I am. What are you going to do about it?” Potter dropped his armful of fragrant takeaway on the next worktop.

Draco sputtered. He needed to say something scathing, something cutting and clever and just rip Potter a new one, but nothing came to him. He just stood there gaping.

“Now, if you’re finished,” Potter continued. “Come eat with me.”

“You can’t eat in here! This is a _lab._ ”

“Let’s live dangerously, shall we?”

“I will not.” Draco was firm. He was resolute. He would not be swayed!

He also hadn’t eaten since breakfast. And it was well past supper. And he was fairly sure Potter had gone to the curry shop by the tube station and Draco _did_ love their vindaloo. He thought he could possibly relieve Potter of some of that, if he had any, which seemed likely since he appeared to have purchased everything on the menu twice over. And yes, it was there, beneath two orders of butter chicken and a side of vegetarian biryani.

Draco harrumphed at Potter, who was grinning to himself like an idiot.

“Wouldn’t want it to go to waste,” Draco said reasonably.

“Definitely not,” Potter agreed, kicking out the stool across from him with one foot for Draco to sit.

Potter was like a trash bin, a bottomless pit, a starved Hippogriff. He consumed two containers of curry, a stack of naan, a gigantic samosa, and even started in on the sag paneer. When he started eyeing Draco’s vindaloo, Draco brandished his plastic fork at him in threat.

“Don’t even think about it,” Draco warned.

“Are you going to finish it?”

“I’m still fucking eating it, Potter! Do you see me with this lamb on my fork?” He waved it in Potter’s grinning face. “What did you think I was going to do with it? Paint its portrait? Have a little chat with it? No, I’m going to eat it, you absolute monster.”

Potter bit his lip and lifted his own little plastic fork, edging toward Draco’s takeaway container.

“Don’t. You. Dare.”

Potter licked his lips once, his eyes sparkling, and then with the lightning-fast reflexes Draco already knew him to possess, he stabbed a chunk of lamb, which Draco slapped right the fuck out of his hand, sending it flying across the room to smack against the wall. It slid down the white paint in a smear of sauce and fat. Draco spun to glare at Potter.

And Potter laughed. He absolutely roared. He had to brace his hands on the table to stay upright. His face got all scrunched up and he showed way too many teeth and his eyes did this thing where they wrinkled at the corners and he looked absolutely ridiculous. So ridiculous that Draco may have chuckled a little himself. At Potter’s expense, of course. Because Potter really was completely insane, and foolish, and just terrible and Draco hated him. So much. More than probably anything in his very interesting and fulfilling life.

When Potter finally settled, his laughs petering out into the occasional huffing chuckle, he rested his pinked face on one fist and looked at Draco in a way that was rather odd.

“I have to go,” Potter said with that strange soft look on his face. Draco wondered if Potter was drunk. Or had eaten himself stupid.

“What a relief,” Draco huffed.

“Are you going to thank me for dinner?”

Draco shot Potter a scathing look, the type that sent the apprentices scurrying. “The dinner you forced on me against my will?”

Potter just smiled cheekily. “That’s the one, yeah.”

“Don’t bet on it. Now fuck off so I can get back to work.”

Potter sighed and flopped off his stool dramatically. “You say the sweetest things,” he said with a roll of his eyes and began collecting his mostly empty bags of food, dumping the rest in the bin. “See you, Malfoy.”

Draco was already back to his notes and he didn’t look up to see Potter leave.

Draco got through two more potions before he decided it would hold until Monday. He couldn’t seem to focus anyway. He was probably just tired. He needed a drink.

*****

Potter walked through Draco’s office door at lunchtime on Monday, absolutely obliterating Draco’s refortified anti-Harry Potter wards.

“Hi,” he said, standing in the middle of the room looking windswept and a bit breathless, probably from that bloody bike of his – the thought of which caused another rather startling bout of sickness.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Potter, must you just trample my wards like a bloody magical erumpent?”

Potter grinned and walked up to the desk and dropped his elbows right onto the stack of parchment to which Draco was giving his undivided attention.

“Magical erumpent? That’s fantastic!” he exclaimed. “I’ve never been called that before!”

He was too close. It was very rude to get that close to someone’s face. Especially smelling the way he did. Was he trying to give Draco a migraine? It was like being slapped in the face with fresh linens and sweet spearmint.

“Hmm,” Draco said, opting for brevity over wit.

Potter pulled back and dropped into the chair opposite Draco as if he owned it. Which he didn’t, although Draco couldn’t remember anyone else sitting in it. It managed to annoy him anyway because Potter didn’t _sit_ on furniture, he draped himself over it. He didn’t put the limbs where they were meant to be but let them spill out over the arms and across the seat. It was too casual, blasé and boneless, and Draco hated the way it looked.

“How was your weekend?” Potter asked.

Draco twirled his quill between his fingers. “It was fine. Rather ordinary.”

That wasn’t what Draco meant to say. What he meant to say was, brilliant! Fantastic! Absolutely jam packed with excitement, intrigue, and wild sex.

In reality, it was rather disappointing. Saturday was a total bust, what with the working overtime and the nonsense with Potter. Afterwards, Draco had gone to his favourite bar and totally struck out. Draco never struck out, not when he had his mind set, at least.

“I see,” Potter said. He stretched his legs out in front of him so that they tucked just under Draco’s desk and Draco had to scoot his chair back to avoid bumping the toe of his oxford against Potter’s clunky boot. It only reinforced Draco’s assumption that Potter had no sense of spatial awareness.

“Did you think of me?” Potter asked.

Draco arched a brow, and the sick feeling grew. “I beg your pardon?”

Potter crossed his ankles, then his arms over his chest. “Did you think of me?” he repeated.

“Why on earth would I do a thing like that?”

Potter shrugged. “I thought of you.”

Draco swallowed hard and balled his hands in his lap to keep from fidgeting in an unbecoming way. “Did you?”

“Yep,” Potter said. “Do you want to know what I thought about?”

“I’m not sure that I do,” Draco said truthfully. He could only imagine what Potter would think of him – cleverer ways to murder Draco than poisoned coffee? Annoying him to death, perhaps?

“That’s too bad because I’m going to tell you anyway.” He leaned forward, his forearms on his knees. “I thought about how I think I like you. I think you’re smart, and funny, and bloody gorgeous with your posh suits and that fucking _voice_ , my god. Even though you can be a bit of a dick. But you know what else I think?”

Draco ought to have made some joke about how he wasn’t aware Potter was capable of thought but could only manage a minute shake of his head.

“I think you just talk to me that way because you like me too. In fact, I think you like me quite a lot.”

“That’s preposterous,” Draco scoffed.

“Is it? Because I’ve heard what you say about me behind my back.”

“And what is that?”

“I hate Harry Potter with his stupid hair and ugly face and terrible clothes. I hate his walk and his laugh and his ridiculous motorbike. And you know, I think you _like_ those things.”

“And how do you figure that, Potter?” Draco said with a smirk because Potter was about to utterly embarrass himself. He thought he’d figured Draco out and he was so terribly _wrong_. God, it was almost difficult to watch him fall all over himself that way.

“Because I’ve never seen anyone look at me the way you do.”

Draco froze. What was Potter prattling on about? He didn’t look at him in any sort of way, did he? He’d certainly glared at Potter on occasion, particularly when Potter was doing something obnoxious like strutting around in his uniform, or laughing too loud, or casting without a wand or a word.

“I don’t look at you,” Draco said. It was meant to sound haughty but it came out too damned small, petulant. Draco cursed inwardly.

“Hm. Well,” Potter said and got up from his chair. Draco expected him to leave, wanted him to leave. But Potter didn’t leave. He walked right up to Draco and placed one hand on either side of the back of his chair and leaned in. He put his face right in Draco’s, practically nose to nose, until Draco could see the flecks of gold in the emerald irises of his eyes. “I’m going to try and kiss you. Please don’t punch me in the face.”

Draco sucked in a breath, alarmed. “You’re going to do what?!”

“You can say no, but if you punch me, I’m going to have to hex you.”

“Honestly, Potter, I’m not so foolish as to think I could get away with slugging the Head Auror, else I probably would have done it ages ago.”

Potter smiled, the lopsided one with the crooked tooth, and grabbed Draco firmly by the chin. Draco stopped breathing.

And Potter kissed him.

It was rather unusual, as far as first kisses go, in that it wasn’t chaste at all. There was no period of awkward adjustment where Draco would be conscious that yes, someone else’s mouth was touching his and it was strange and new, but okay. This wasn’t that at all. Potter held Draco in place with his hand along Draco’s jaw, then tilted his head, parted Draco’s lips with his own, and stuck his tongue right into Draco’s mouth. Just like that! There was no hesitation, just the confident breaching of Draco’s lips and they were bloody snogging.

Harry Potter kissed like…well…exactly like one would imagine Harry Potter would kiss (not Draco though, he’d never imagined so preposterous a scenario as this). It was confident and bold and more than a little arrogant. Draco shouldn’t have kissed back; it would have served Potter right. But Potter tasted minty and he smelled rather nice up close and though Draco was loathed to admit it, he was rather good at this kissing business, causing heat to pool in Draco’s gut with just the brush of his tongue.

And then Potter was pulling back, and Draco managed valiantly not to chase after him. When Draco opened his eyes, Potter was smiling.

“Now, see? That wasn’t so bad was it?” he said.

Draco blinked rapidly. He cleared his throat. He crossed his legs. “I’ve had worse.”

Draco expected the huffing-giggle, but was treated to something much lower – a throaty, gruff sort of chuckle, which was new.

“Well that’s a relief,” Potter said. He withdrew and straightened, standing at his full height to loom over Draco. “I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

“Shall I even bother with the wards?” Draco asked, going for haughty and barely managing.

“Why not? I like a challenge,” Potter said with a wink, and left.

Draco slumped in his chair and ran a hand across his brow.

He wasn’t sure what sort of game Potter thought he was playing, swirling into people's offices, accusing them of ludicrous things like _not hating him_ and then kissing them that way! Things like that just weren’t done! There was protocol! There were _rules_. It was improper.

Maybe he had underestimated Potter. Perhaps it was some diabolical plan to lure Draco into a false sense of security before he utterly obliterated him. It would be a rather fantastic practical joke, he supposed. Maybe he should have thought of it first.

Draco could hardly focus on his work that afternoon. His mind just kept returning to Potter, puzzling over what the bloody hell he thought he was doing, what he was trying to achieve.

Potter couldn’t be right. It wasn’t possible. It was _Potter_ , Draco couldn’t like him. He was completely unlikable! He was sloppy and foolhardy and had all the poise of a Flobberworm. He wasn’t Draco’s type at all. Draco usually went for someone with taste, someone refined, interesting, and clever. Potter was precisely none of those things.

Then again, Draco quickly grew tired of the galas and suppers in French bistros, of glasses of wine over discussions of politics. He knew it was what he was supposed to want. He knew those sorts of men were well-matched for him. But gods, they were bloody boring and were often total prudes in bed and perhaps Draco had a taste for the more…enthusiastic lovers.

Draco dared to imagine what it might be like to do those things with Potter, and gods, what a disaster it would be. It was no secret that Potter hated the galas and Ministry-dos. He never held his tongue and often sent the Pure Blooded socialites scurrying away clutching their pearls. Which was sort of satisfying to witness. And Draco could admit that it would be rather amusing to watch Potter fumble his way through a menu entirely in French. He’d probably end up turning the thing to ash with a wandless _incendio_ and demand four orders of fish and chips. Discussions of politics with Potter would be catastrophic and would need to be done over whisky rather than wine and would probably end up with one of them covered in it because there was no chance they’d see eye to eye.

But Potter said he liked Draco, didn’t he? Draco didn’t think he imagined that, although he was considering having his head checked as he was currently imagining possible date scenarios with Harry bloody Potter. Potter said he’d thought of Draco, and none of those thoughts appeared to be hateful in the least. Not one of them seemed to include ways to humiliate or murder Draco, which came as a bit of a surprise.

The thoughts plagued Draco through the rest of his day and all the way home. He’d grown quite accustomed to hating Potter, to finding fault in every little thing he did. But when he examined it further, as painful as it was to admit, those things suddenly didn’t look much like faults at all. Yes, Draco felt sick whenever Potter laughed or smiled or looked at him, eyes narrowed and glinting. But was it possible he’d misinterpreted that churning nausea as intense, all-consuming dislike when it was really something else? He supposed he got a similar ache in his gut when he found something appealing, arousing.

And Merlin’s fucking bollocks, did Draco want to fuck Harry Potter? He couldn’t possibly! Could he?

Draco needed a second opinion.

*****

Pansy was two stilettos through the floo within ten minutes of receiving Draco’s owl, especially since he’d promised her something nice from the cellars.

“Ooh, darling, you’ve brought out the good stuff. Are we in crisis?” she asked, grinning at the dusty bottle of Cabernet Draco was pouring into two glasses.

Draco tutted. “We’re not in bloody crisis,” he said. Because they weren’t. Obviously. It was nothing. “I just wanted to run an idea by you.”

“Mm,” Pansy hummed, delighted, sniffing the wine in her glass. “Keep me full up on this and you can say whatever you like.”

“It’s nothing serious, really. I’ve just been doing a bit of thinking.”

“Oh, good for you, pet. That sounds very healthy.”

“Shut it, would you? I’m _trying_ to be serious _._ It’s just…” he cleared his throat and crossed his legs, the epitome of casual. “The men I date, what do you think of them?”

Pansy sipped her wine and wobbled her head. “They’re alright. Pretty, if you like that sort of thing. Bit boring, maybe. Honestly, I don’t think much of them at all. They never last more than a month or so. Why do you ask?”

“Do you think I go for the wrong sort?”

Pansy snorted. “I think you go for the _right_ sort, they’re just entirely wrong for you.”

“How so?” Draco asked with a frown.

“Oh, Draco. You pretend to be so dull, but I know you better. Look at you, all buttoned up and business-like. It’s like you don’t want anyone to know you’re a dirty slag. Cobra in the grass, you are.”

Draco smirked. “We don’t all have to advertise our proclivities, Pans.”

“It isn’t about advertisement, Draco. It’s about a bloody warning. Is this why you called me here? You just wanted someone to call you names? I’m going to charge you next time, you know.”

Draco clucked. “I could get that for free. And no. It’s not that. Something far more dire.”

“Oh?” she sat forward in her seat.

“It’s about Potter.”

Pansy paused, sighed, then held out her glass, tapping the rim. “I’m going to need you to top me off, love. I’m not nearly drunk enough for that conversation.”

Draco rolled his eyes and poured a bit more in her glass.

“Come now, don’t be shy,” she said, nodding at her glass, and Draco drained the bottle into it.

“That’s better. So, what did Potter do now? Was he laughing noisily again? The bastard.”

Draco scoffed at the mere thought. “I hate him,” he said.

Pansy snorted into her wine glass. “Yeah, sure, course you do, darling.”

“I do! I always have. He’s terrible.”

“Oh yes, bloody terrible, with his great muscles and roguish good looks. What’s to like?”

Draco withdrew, horrified. “My god, are you attracted to Potter?”

“Draco, your denial runs so deep you’ve actually convinced yourself that you’re blind as well as stupid. Potter is fit. I’d fuck him.”

“You will not,” Draco snapped.

“Oh? And why not? I bet he’s spectacular in bed,” Pansy said, a dreamy look in her eye as she sipped her wine.

“He kissed me.”

Pansy shrugged.

“Did you hear me?” Draco said, a bit louder. “Potter _kissed me_.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, is the part where I’m supposed to be surprised? Okay, let me try,” Pansy cleared her throat and fluffed her hair, straightening her back in her chair. “Harry Potter did what? He kissed you?! Oh my word! I never saw it coming, what with the way you two are constantly eye-fucking whenever you’re in the same room, I just assumed you were plotting each other’s demise! And now you tell me this whole time you were just plotting whose cock is going in whose arse?! I’m utterly flabbergasted. I think I’ll go have a lie down.”

“You’re a bitch, you know,” Draco said flatly.

“And? At least I’m not lying to myself about it. You ought to try it sometime.”

Draco crossed his arms. “I’m not lying to myself! I was just…surprised is all.”

“Why? I mean, good on Potter for finally doing something about it because the rest of us are sick of sitting in your soup of sexual tension all the time.”

Draco sighed and let his head drop back against the back of the chair. “Fuck. I like Potter, don’t I?”

“Like him?” Pansy cackled. “Draco you _love_ him.”

He looked at her sharply, but Pansy remained unaffected. Draco never should have given her all that wine; it made her immune to his cutting looks.

“You want to kiss him and fuck him and marry him and cook him dinner and wear his clothes as you run off into the sunset together,” Pansy sing-songed. She really was terrible, and Draco thought he might hate her as well.

“I draw the line there, you ungrateful bitch. If you see me in Harry Potter’s clothes, I insist you AK me on the spot because I’ve clearly gone completely round the twist.”

“It would be my pleasure. Cheers, love.”

Draco clinked his crystal reluctantly against hers.

*****

Draco waited on pins and needles in his office all afternoon, but Potter didn’t show. He was in, Darcy Durnhill in Evidence confirmed that, as did the crying Auror trainee Potter had just dressed down, and the canteen witch who delivered his lunch.

It was incredibly inconvenient and even a little bit rude for Potter to spend every day butting his messy head into Draco’s office, only to skip out as soon as Draco had finally come to the epiphany that he might potentially…possibly…just maybe not hate Potter. How was he expected to test this theory if Potter kept himself locked away in his gigantic office in the DMLE rather than haunting Draco’s doorway? And anyway, Potter hadn’t even come round to notice the extra effort Draco put into his wards that afternoon. He spent all evening devising a complex web of Potter-specific wards and he wasn’t even there to appreciate them! The bastard.

By three o’clock, Draco threw down his quill and stalked out of his office, heading directly for the DMLE. There was nothing to be had for it. Draco couldn’t focus and he needed an explanation if he ever expected to get through the rest of his afternoon without imploding.

In comparison to the quiet calm of the Potions Regulations Department, walking into the DMLE was like kicking a hornet's nest and then deciding to take a stroll through the swarm. It was loud and chaotic. Uniformed witches and wizards buzzed everywhere, shouting while spelled files and papers flapped across the ceiling before dropping onto one desk or another.

Draco received a few side-eyed glances as he traversed the bullpen, but no one stopped him. He’d only been through once or twice to deliver paperwork in the past, and it was mostly just to slate his curiosity. It wasn’t as if it was uncommon for someone from his department to make an appearance. Although, it was perhaps less common for them to find themselves on the threshold of the Head Auror’s office, particularly when the Head Auror had a rather long standing reputation for his short temper, was unparalleled at dueling, and was known for absolutely obliterating anyone daring to disturb him without an appointment. Potter did have a rather fearsome reputation and Draco could admit that was somewhat appealing.

The door to Potter’s office was open and when Draco approached, he could see Potter bent over a stack of paperwork, his glasses pushed up into his hair, and one hand rubbing between his eyes. He looked tired and a little deflated. Well, as much as a person like Potter could look that way. The magic still crackled around him, electric and fierce. Draco could feel it even from where he stood, hovering on the threshold and it made the fine hairs on his arms stand on end. It made him want to go for his wand. It made him a little hard.

Draco cleared his throat and rapped lightly on the door frame. Potter’s hand dropped from his face and he looked at Draco, frowned, his gaze a bit unfocused. He pulled his glasses from his hair and placed them back on his nose, his lips twitching at one corner, but not quite a smile.

“Hello,” he said.

“You didn’t come by today,” Draco said, as if that was a reasonable explanation for him showing up at Potter’s office.

“No.”

“That’s too bad,” Draco said. “My new wards were incredibly clever. You would have been extremely impressed. I have it in my mind to be cross with you, after I spent all that time coming up with ways to singe your eyebrows off and blast you halfway to Belgium.”

Potter did smirk then. “I’m very sorry I missed it.”

“So,” Draco said. “What’s your excuse then?”

Potter leaned forward on his desk. It was a hulking thing, and a bloody mess, Draco noticed. Scattered with parchment, ink pots, folders, an ugly brass lamp. There was a big placard right at the center that said HARRY J. POTTER, HEAD AUROR. Potter had been at it for years, but it was still jarring at times, imagining the gangly, awkward boy from school as the same man that sat in front of Draco now. It was a rather important job, Head Auror, and Potter was, historically, quite good at it.

And there it was again – the sick, nasty feeling. But when Draco examined it a little further, it felt a bit similar to the ache of anticipation, to desire.

“Wanted to see if you’d notice,” Potter said.

“I almost didn’t,” Draco lied, turning his gaze from Potter. “I’ve been unbelievably productive today without the distractions.”

Draco chewed his lip and ran his thumbnail up the seam of the door frame. He didn’t want to look at Potter, to see what his face was doing, if he was laughing at Draco, annoyed, angry, indifferent.

“Not that I minded them. The distractions,” Draco went on to say.

Potter just sat there at his giant, messy desk, and watched Draco with curious eyes.

“So, I figured I could return the favour. Distract you from the very important things you probably would rather be doing.”

“You’re right,” Potter said. “I was really enjoying filling out these incident reports. They’re riveting. Not sure I could be pulled away.”

“Hm. That’s too bad. Because I rather fancied a cup of the excuse for tea they serve in the canteen,” Draco said.

“I suppose I could be persuaded,” Potter said, but remained seated.

Draco shifted.

“Go on, persuade me.”

Draco huffed and rolled his eyes. Potter was bloody insufferable.

“I’ll buy, I suppose?” Draco tried.

Potter chuckled and hung his head, carding a hand roughly through his hair. When he looked up again, he was smiling.

“Is that the best you can do?”

“Quite possibly,” Draco admitted.

Potter laughed and Draco’s stomach did the horrible swooping thing it was prone to do when Potter laughed.

“Alright you twat, let’s go,” Potter said, and pushed himself from his desk. He stepped around and stood close enough to Draco that he could smell him – mint and sandalwood.

Draco’s eyelids fluttered involuntarily, and Potter’s stupid grin grew teeth. He placed one hand low on Draco’s back and gave him a little push.

Trailing Harry bloody Potter out of the DMLE was an experience. The chaos didn’t slow down by any means, but rather parted to make way, just split down the middle in his wake. Trainees scurried away while the older, more seasoned Aurors treated him to tight, reverent nods.

Draco resisted the desire to adjust himself in his trousers. Merlin’s beard, the bloody _fear_ the man inspired was intoxicating. And it was made even more potent by the fact that Potter didn’t act that way around Draco at all. He was constantly smiling and laughing, his expressions lighter and less burdened, his limbs loose.

The DMLE was just a short, but very public walk, from the bustling canteen. It was then that Draco realized the extent to which other people watched Harry Potter. Draco had never really noticed it, too busy watching Potter himself. But now that he stood next to him, he could _feel_ it, feel the eyes on them from every corner.

It wasn’t that Potter was unfriendly to those around him. He waved back to anyone that acknowledged him with something more than blatant gawping. He even offered a hearty hello and a friendly handshake to the head of Magical Sports and Games.

It was no better once they reached the canteen. Potter managed to make Alice, the notoriously sour witch in charge of the tea service, blush like a bloody school girl by flirting with her shamelessly. It turned out that Draco didn’t need to buy Potter tea, he was just given it for free.

“Do you ever get sick of everyone staring at you?” Draco asked, once they were seated at a little table by the window.

“Hm? Oh. Yeah, course,” he said with a trademark shrug. “I can tune it out most of the time.” He gave Draco a loaded look. “Most of the time,” he repeated.

“Would drive me bloody bonkers,” Draco said, stirring the sugar into his tea.

“Liar,” Potter said with a smirk. “Little peacock, you are.”

Draco did not blush. The heating charms were clearly on the fritz again.

“You know,” Potter said, slouching in his chair, one arm stretched out on the table to hold his tea. “I thought you were a Legillimens at first.”

Draco wasn’t exactly sure what he meant by that, but he tilted his head, arching one brow. “I dabble. But I wouldn’t say I’m adept by any means. Certainly not encouraged, considering my history.”

Potter’s eyes narrowed. “Thought maybe that was why I’d get this weird feeling. Like, I can feel it, when you’re there.”

Draco was taken aback. “I don’t go ‘round battering my way into people’s minds without their permission. And I certainly wouldn’t be fool enough to try it on you. They’d throw me into Azkaban before I could even blink.”

Potter shook his head, causing a bit of twisty dark hair to fall over his face. “That’s not what I meant. I have a sort of sense for it, is what I’m trying to say. Can feel it, just niggling at the back of my mind. Hard to describe and – ah – probably sounds a bit mental, but I can just feel magic sometimes.”

“Yes, well you _are_ a wizard, you know,” Draco drawled.

Potter snorted. “I got that. It’s more like...like everyone has this bubble of it around them, and I can feel when it moves or changes. I know when they’re about to cast, what spell they’re going to use, how powerful it will be.”

Draco frowned. “That's...alarming,” 

“Mostly it’s just distracting. People cast mundane spells all day long. But like I said, I can usually tune it out, and sometimes I don’t notice it at all. But yours,” he pursed his lips. “Yours is _very_ distracting,”

“So, you just assumed I was trying to read your mind without your permission?”

“No. Well, not exactly. It just has that kind of…I don’t know, flavour, I guess.”

Draco put down is tea and boggled at Potter. “Flavour? It’s magic, Potter, not a sodding ice cream.”

What Potter was saying wasn’t just strange, it was bloody impossible. Draco had heard of the sort of magical empaths that could feel magical signatures. They were incredibly sensitive and tended to excel in the sorts of fields that required particularly fiddly magic, like curse breaking and complex charms. Potter, as far as Draco could tell, was not skilled with delicate magic. The man was a war hammer, a blasting curse to the face.

“I don’t know how else to describe it,” Potter said.

“Alright then, Potter. You’ve intrigued me, what does it taste like?” Draco pulled a face. It was a ridiculous notion.

Potter’s eyes narrowed and his smile went sly. “It’s like,” he chewed his lip. “Bit floral, I guess? Perfumey.”

“Floral? You’re joking,” Draco said flatly. “Is that why you hang around Granger and the Weasel so much? Because their magic tastes like ginger biscuits and Earl Grey or something?”

Potter laughed. “It’s not like food, you git. And anyway, Hermione’s is more…like that ink and paper taste you get at the back of your tongue when you’re in a dark corner of a library. Ron is like,” he hummed. “Grass and laundry soap.”

Draco just blinked at him, then shook his head. “You’re right. Sounds mental. Ought to get your head checked, Potter.”

Potter just shrugged in that familiar way and sipped his tea.

“So, that’s why you think you notice my existence? Because you feel like you’ve had a jar of potpourri shoved down your throat?” Draco had it in his mind to be offended by that. He wanted to go back to the bit where Potter was complimenting his posh clothes and voice.

“Well,” Potter said, looking at him through his sooty lashes. “That’s not the only reason why.”

Draco was emboldened. He leaned forward on his elbows and affected his most lascivious smile, the one he used in pubs to pull.

Potter responded perfectly – his eyes darkening and lips pulling tight – but before he could answer, a silvery, translucent fox came bounding up to him. Draco didn’t know who the Patronus belonged to, but Potter’s expression shuttered, and he stood abruptly.

“I have to go,” he said. Then he frowned and leaned towards Draco, palms flat on the table. “I’m really sorry.”

“Emergency?” Draco asked, as the fox darted away across the room.

He nodded. “Break in the case.”

“Off you go then,” Draco said.

Potter swirled away, back toward the DMLE, and if the crowds parted for him when Potter was calm and casual, they bloody split like a knife wound for him now. 

*****

Draco didn’t see or hear from Potter for days. The case was splashed all over the front page of the Prophet and, from the looks of it, Potter was going to be caught up between depositions and court for the rest of the week. Draco tried to swing by his office once or twice on his way to get his afternoon coffee or tea, only to find it vacant. He even left a takeaway cup on Potter’s desk, and found it gone the next day – either cleared away, or perhaps consumed. 

Despite the commotion caused by Potter’s case in Draco’s department, the week dragged on with almost unbearable dullness. Draco hated to admit it, but he missed Potter’s interruptions – his dark looks, his stupid, echoing laugh. And what Draco hated to admit even more was that he wanted to kiss Potter again. He really, _really_ wanted to kiss him. Merlin, he wanted to do a lot more than kiss him, if he was honest, but short of setting up camp at Potter’s messy desk, Draco would just have to wait until he returned.

It was terribly inconvenient, and Draco hated being made to wait.

He still hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Potter by Friday and Draco felt a massive strop coming on. He thought about flooing Pansy, or going to the bar, but instead he poured himself a glass of wine and attempted to focus on some inane Muggle mystery novel Granger had lent him after their last lunch meeting.

His attention was completely shot and to make matters worse, the fucking cats were at it again. He suddenly understood exactly why Mrs. Wilkinson suspected something nefarious; the things made such a racket he could barely think straight. Draco cast an overly aggressive silencing charm that only just succeeded in shutting them out and attempted to return to his book.

He was just managing to get into it when a banging started on Draco’s door. He growled and chucked the book against the wall. Wand in hand, he stalked to the front door, fully prepared to hex whoever deigned to disturb him now.

He flung it open to find Harry Potter standing there, in uniform, silhouetted by the streetlights.

“You,” Draco said, and put away his wand.

Potter shrugged. “Me.”

Draco shifted to a position that hoped looked infinitely more relaxed than he felt. “And what can I do for you?”

“I was in the neighbourhood.”

He looked at Potter sceptically. “Were you?”

“Mrs. Wilkinson again, with the cats.”

“Must be some very dangerous cats if they keep sending the Head Auror to look into it.”

“Mm yes. Very dangerous indeed. Not to worry, I sorted it.”

“What a relief.”

The silence stretched thin and Draco tried not to shift. Potter just stood there looking nonplussed and more than a little amused with a crooked smile that caused his cheek to do this silly little dimple thing that even Draco could admit was somewhat fetching.

“I think you should invite me in,” Potter said.

“There aren’t any werecats in my house,” Draco explained reasonably.

“No? We should probably be certain, don’t you think?”

“Oh, yes. Would be remiss not to,” Draco said with a roll of his eyes, but the smile tugged at his lips anyway, try though he might to suppress it.

He stepped aside and Potter walked right in. Before Draco managed to shut the door behind him, he found himself pressed against it and Potter was there, one hand resting just besides Draco’s ear. He leaned in; his eyes narrowed.

“On second thought, letting me inside was probably a dangerous thing to do.”

Draco could feel the heat of him, and the wicked curl of his lips made his gut ache and pool with heat.

Draco licked his lips and swallowed hard. His throat suddenly dry. “Is that a threat?” he asked.

Potter chuckled and it was so low and deep it sounded almost like a growl. “It’s a warning.”

When Draco gathered the courage to meet Potter’s eyes, it was to find them heavy-lidded and dark, predatory. Maybe Potter meant for it to look frightening, but it just emboldened Draco. He reached out one hand and ran the tip of his index finger along Potter’s sharp jawline. He traced the shape of his mouth with his thumb and watched as Potter’s lips parted around a gasp. Potter’s pupils blew wide and then his mouth was crashing into Draco’s, hot and forceful. He nipped against Draco’s bottom lip and Draco opened for him easily. He was caged by Potter’s body, one fisted hand on each side of Draco’s head – not touching him, perhaps actively trying not to.

Draco suffered no such restraint. His hands were everywhere – splayed across Potter’s shoulders, dragging over his scalp, and buried in his hair. He wanted to feel him head to foot, to drag Potter against him completely so he could feel the hardness of his chest against his own, the heat of his hands gripping him, but Potter held himself back, and Draco would have precisely none of it. He grabbed a fistful of Potter’s robes and tugged him forward, at the same time arching his back and bowing his body to bring them together. And oh _yes,_ it felt so fucking good. He needed it, needed all of it, needed Potter hard and hot against him, his tongue in his mouth and his hands on his arse. He needed it more than air.

Potter gasped and pulled away, one hand against Draco’s chest, pinning him, gasping and helpless against the door. Potter’s eyes raked over him and Draco was sure he looked a mess – pink and flushed, his mouth swollen, wet.

“Tell me to leave,” Potter growled. “Tell me to leave right now.”

“Are you mad? Why the bloody fuck would I do that?” Draco boggled.

“Because if you don’t, I’m going to fuck you right up against this door. Malfoy, I swear, I can’t stop thinking about it. I’m going fucking crazy.”

Draco felt like he was glowing, like light was just radiating from him so bright it would be blinding. This was Potter, _Harry Potter_ , standing in front of him, nearly quivering, his voice gravel and his skin flushed from wanting him, wanting _Draco_. It was a fucking dream. Or a nightmare. Draco wasn’t sure. The only thing he was certain of was that there was no way he was kicking Potter out. Not a chance in hell.

Potter’s jaw went tight as Draco undid his uniform, one button at a time. Potter watched like a man starved, his eyes wild.

“You’d go? Just like that?” Draco asked.

Potter nodded tightly, fixated on the slow, precise movements of Draco’s fingers.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that,” Draco said.

The words had barely fallen from Draco’s lips and Potter was on him again. His hands, no longer held in tight fists, were viciously tearing at buttons. Gasping into biting kisses, hissing at the first contact of skin and against skin.

It was wild and completely ridiculous. Draco’s shirt was yanked down over one shoulder as Potter latched himself onto Draco’s throat, sucking marks into the skin, a trail of red abrasions blooming in his wake. Potter had one hand on each of Draco’s arse cheeks and was dragging Draco’s body against his own with a maddening roughness that sent showers of sparks across Draco’s nerve endings.

It felt bloody fantastic and Draco had no doubt that if Potter kept it up, they would both end up coming in their trousers in a matter of minutes. Draco thought it would be a terrible waste if he never even got Potter out of that stupid uniform.

He grabbed a fistful of Potter’s hair and yanked him back with a gasp. Potter’s eyes were dark and a little feral and Draco nearly reconsidered allowing him to stop ravishing him, but no, he had to get Potter horizontal immediately.

“Bedroom,” Draco managed. “End of the hall.”

Potter blinked once, then tore himself away. He grabbed Draco by the wrist and pulled him, stumbling down the hallway.

“Bloody hell, Potter, just manhandle me why don’t you,” Draco grumbled, when Potter pushed him down atop the neatly made bed with a shove.

“I’m sorry,” Potter said, not sounding sorry in the slightest as he climbed over Draco and started yanking at the fastenings of his trousers. “You make me crazy.”

“Is that a fact?” Draco asked, because truthfully, that was a bit surprising.

“God, yes,” Potter groaned. “You’re always so buttoned up, prim and proper. And you fight me every step of the way.”

Draco grinned. “And you like that, do you?”

Potter managed to get Draco’s trousers undone and his hand was skating across the trail of hair beneath Draco’s belly button. He slipped his fingers past the waistband of Draco’s pants.

“I like that,” he said, and took Draco’s cock in hand.

Draco gasped. Potter’s hand was hot and rough and the angle was all wrong but it didn’t matter because Potter was straddling him with his uniform half unbuttoned and his bottom lip clamped between his teeth and Draco did not hate that one bit.

Draco was trapped in the confines of his unhooked trousers and tangled in the arms of his shirt and it was bloody frustrating. He wanted to writhe, wanted to wriggle out of the fabric that trapped him so he could wrap himself around Potter properly. He wanted to feel the drag of his cock against Potter’s warm skin, wanted to touch him everywhere.

Potter must have felt similarly because suddenly he was pulling back, tearing at his robes, shucking his t-shirt, and unbuttoning his jeans with surprising efficiency. And while Draco wouldn’t have minded Potter taking his time disrobing, this wasn’t so bad either because Potter was not wearing pants under his jeans and he was naked alarmingly quickly and Draco barely had a moment to look his fill before Potter was treating him to the same efficient stripping.

And then Potter was on top of him, straddling his hips and rutting against him, dragging their cocks together. And he was so warm, his skin almost feverishly hot. The drag of his stubbled chin across Draco’s throat burned as he nipped kisses into Draco’s neck. And then Potter was wrapping a hand around both their cocks and Draco couldn’t bite back his groan. He struggled to fill his lungs with air. He was gasping and clutching at Potter’s skin and holy fuck he was going to come. It was too soon. He wasn’t ready. But Potter’s grip was firm and the press of his cock against Draco’s own was too fucking much. And then Draco made the mistake of opening his eyes to see Potter over him, his eyes burning so bright, the colour high on his cheeks, his lips parted. And oh god, he couldn’t stand it.

Draco buried a hand in Potter’s hair as his body tensed, the pressure building at the base of his spine, a glorious throbbing ache. And then it burst, sending tingling shocks across every inch of Draco’s body.

“Oh my god, holy fuck,” he heard Potter curse as his fist tightened. Draco groaned and convulsed, the touch too much, too rough, nearly painful against his oversensitive skin. But then warmth bloomed across Draco’s stomach, sticky and wet, and he forced his eyes open just in time to see Potter’s face crumple as he came.

Draco had to suck in great gasps of air to catch his breath and Potter seemed no better off. He was panting softly, looking terribly flushed and rather lovely with his mad hair and bright eyes.

Potter released his grip and brought his hand up to the mess across Draco’s stomach, smearing it beneath his palm.

“Potter, that’s filthy.”

Potter quirked one eyebrow as Draco felt the sharp tingling of a cleaning charm scrape across his skin where Potter’s hand rested. 

“You think _that’s_ filthy?” Potter said as he slid down Draco’s chest to run his lips across the pinked skin of Draco’s stomach.

Potter kissed just below Draco’s belly button; Draco’s soft cock trapped against his chest.

Draco carded a hard through Potter’s hair.

“I think _you’re_ filthy,” Draco purred.

Potter mouthed at the crease of Draco’s thigh.

“You don’t know the half of it,” he said.

Draco just sighed. “You’re wasting your time down there,” he said. “There’s no way I’m getting hard again that fast. I’m not a bloody teenager.”

Potter nipped at his inner thigh and Draco flinched, swatting Potter lightly on the ear in retribution.

“Want to bet on it?” Potter asked, his voice a low rumble.

“On whether you can get me hard again?”

Potter hummed.

“My gods, you’re confident. Fine, Potter, do your worst.”

Potter’s responding grin had a predatory edge. He left kisses and licks against the insides of Draco’s thighs, his cheek and chin nuzzled against Draco’s spent cock. It was lovely to watch and Draco felt the flare of arousal low in his belly reignite. It wasn’t quite enough, but then Potter pushed up to sit back on his knees. He tapped the outside of Draco’s ankle with one finger.

“Turn over,” he said.

Draco blinked owlishly at him for half a moment, then scrambled to coordinate his loose limbs into cooperating. He was suddenly glad he did not take Potter’s bet because if Potter was going to do what Draco thought he was going to do, well, Draco might just let him win. 

He heard Potter chuckle softly as he smoothed the flat of his palm down Draco’s spine. He followed the trail of his hand with his mouth, placing soft, wet kisses across Draco’s back. Draco twitched as his fingers slipped between Draco’s arsecheeks, skating over his hole, just lightly grazing the flesh. Potter’s thumb, dry and thick, pressed more firmly against him, circling the sensitive skin, and Draco had to grit his teeth to keep from pushing back into the touch.

And then he felt Potter’s breath against his skin, the scratch of his chin, the heat of his lips. Draco turned his face into the pillow and groaned at the first press of Potter’s tongue against his hole. There was nothing tentative about the way Potter pressed his face into Draco’s arse. The movements weren’t fluttering or reserved, but confident, hungry, and it felt fucking _incredible_. Draco had always been a bit of a slut for rimming. The wet slide of tongue and lips against his arsehole was just bloody filthy and Draco loved it. The little curl of shame in his gut only managed to drive him higher as he moaned wantonly into the pillow as Potter kissed and tongued his arse the same way he did his mouth.

Potter was using his hands too, spreading the globes of Draco’s arse wide with his palms, dipping his fingers in to chase the slick trail of his tongue against Draco’s body. Draco felt like his limbs had turned to jelly and he struggled to stay upright, his spine bowed and almost feline under Potter’s lurid ministrations. Potter dipped the tip of his thumb inside Draco’s body, stretching the rim with this finger and tongue. The hot ache in Draco’s belly had returned full force and he could feel the blood rushing directly to his cock. He was getting hard again, but it felt different from the first time. Now, it built slowly, burning its way through Draco’s veins, churning in his gut until it distilled, so razor sharp it was dizzying.

Draco couldn’t help himself and pushed back against Harry’s mouth and tongue. Harry’s responding groan was so low that Draco could feel it vibrate inside of him.

“More,” Draco gasped. “I need more.”

Harry complied immediately, breaching Draco’s body with one spit-slicked finger. Draco keened as Potter slowly worked him open. Potter’s movements were anything but gentle, but they lacked the desperate edge that drove them the first time. Potter’s fingers were sure and practiced, and he moved with an unhurried pace that fanned the flame of Draco’s arousal.

A second finger joined the first and Potter’s tongue was back, licking into him, leaving Draco wet and pliant. And then Potter was twisting his fingers, crooking them inside of Draco’s body, dragging over his prostate in a way that had Draco reeling. Stars exploded behind his eyelids and he was undoubtedly making a racket, gasping and moaning, which only encouraged Potter to do it again. And again.

He was bloody ruthless, and Draco was a writhing mess. His face was buried deep in the pillow, gasping on humid air, twitching and bucking as Potter deigned to completely destroy him. Draco hardly even felt the burn when a third finger was added, lost in the knife edge of pleasure all over again.

Draco’s cock was dripping now, flushed and aching. He wanted desperately to rut into the mattress, but Potter kept his hips aloft with the firm grip of one hand. Potter’s hand slipped down over the jut of Draco’s hip bone to curl around his cock, pumping it once. Potter released him abruptly. The heat of his mouth was gone, and his fingers slipped from Draco’s body. Draco wanted to scream. But then Potter’s body was draped over his own, and he was speaking in Draco’s ear.

“You’re hard,” he said, his voice hoarse and raspy and Draco bit his lip to keep from groaning.

“No fucking shit,” Draco hissed.

Harry’s chuckle was throaty as he nipped at Draco’s ear.

“I want to fuck you. Can I fuck you?” he said.

“My gods, Potter, if you don’t get inside me immediately, I will hold you down and do it myself,” Draco snarled through gritted teeth.

Potter’s laugh was a bright and sparkling thing that made something in Draco’s chest flutter. Potter slid away from where he was pressed against Draco’s back. Draco kept his face in the pillow and focused on breathing so he wouldn’t hyperventilate before Potter got his cock in him. Potter kept him anchored with the weight of one hand against Draco’s hip. Draco heard the squelch of a lubrication charm and turned his head to the side just enough to see Potter run his slicked fist over his cock slowly. Gods, Draco was going to have to buy a bloody pensieve because he was pretty sure he wanted to watch Potter do that on a loop for the rest of his life.

Potter caught him looking and smirked.

“Like to watch, do you?”

“Just wondering what the bloody hell is taking you so long. If you want a wank, I’ll just fuck off, shall I?”

“You’re a mouthy one,” Potter said, running his hand over his length even slower, the bastard.

“Try a bit harder and maybe I’ll shut up,” Draco snarled.

Potter lined himself up against Draco’s entrance, just barely teasing the rim.

“Nah, I think I like it. Think I can get you to beg?”

“I’ll beg you to shut the hell up and fuck me already.”

Potter huffed a laugh. “Keep talking to me like that and that is exactly what you’ll get.”

And then he was pushing in, splitting Draco in two – and he didn’t stop until he was fully seated, his hips pressed firmly against Draco’s backside. Draco couldn’t breathe, couldn’t possibly draw air into his lungs because Potter was _big_ and he was so full. It burned and ached and when Draco finally sucked in a breath, it sounded more like a sob.

Potter didn’t wait for Draco to adjust, just pulled out in one smooth drag and then pushed back in. Draco’s hands clenched into fists, clutching handfuls of the sheets, tearing the corners from the mattress. Potter was driving into him with a steady rhythm, hands on Draco’s hips, preventing him from pulling away, guiding himself deeper into Draco’s body.

Potter was unrelenting and it was fucking heaven. Potter’s cock was dragging against Draco’s prostate and Draco’s moans and gasps were falling from his lips unchecked. Draco felt one of Potter’s hands release his hip to curl around Draco’s stomach and up his chest, guiding him upright until Draco was sitting with Potter’s chest to his back. His knees were spread almost painfully wide and Potter was still pounding into him with deep powerful thrusts. Potter’s hand that wasn’t pressed against Draco’s stomach curled around Draco’s neck, tipping his head back and exposing his throat. Draco’s body was curved like a bow and Potter held him fast, preventing Draco from twisting away from him.

Potter’s hand was so close to his cock and Draco wanted desperately to feel it wrapped around him. He was aching and it _hurt_. Draco couldn’t move and god, if Potter didn’t touch him soon, he might die.

Potter’s hand on Draco’s throat tightened, not restricting his breathing, just wrapping Draco in his possessive grip.

“You want me to touch you, don’t you,” he murmured into Draco’s ear. “You’re bloody gagging for it, aren’t you.”

Draco just growled in response and Potter chuckled. The hand on Draco’s stomach moved, dragging upwards to pinch his nipple between cruel fingers. Draco gasped as the sharp ache bloomed into pleasure.

“Beg,” Harry said.

Draco shook his head fiercely, but his muscles were beginning to shake, and Potter had him pulled so taught, held him so firmly in his grip, still fucking into him with a steady intensity.

“You’re lovely like this, you know. Desperate and wanting. Flushed,” he ran his fingers teasingly down Draco’s fevered chest. “I could do this all night. Do you think you could stand it?”

Draco swallowed hard, his throat dry. He felt like he was going to fly apart, like he was on fire and burning alive. He needed Harry to touch him. He could feel the emotion welling in his chest, something painful and heady, like he might cry or scream if he didn’t get relief.

Potter’s hand dropped low again. He had to curl slightly, reducing the depth of his thrusts, pulling Draco’s back ever tighter. He gripped Draco loosely by the balls.

He couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Touch me. Please – god – Harry, I need it, I need you. I need you to – ” The rest of Draco’s words were lost in the groan that tore out of him as Harry wrapped a hand around his cock. He pumped Draco’s aching erection in time with the thrusts of his hips. Draco wanted so badly to bear down or thrust up, he didn’t know which, but it didn’t matter because Harry was still holding him so tightly he couldn’t move.

He could feel it building, bigger than the first time. The pleasure ramped up and up and Draco was choking on it, sucking in weak, pathetic little sips of air, wanting so badly to tip over the edge, but also fearing the fall.

Harry was whispering sweet nothings in his ear.

“Just like that,” he murmured. “Fuck, Draco, just like that. Let go, I’ve got you.”

The feeling was still there, growing with each second – that tearing ache in his chest that felt like grief, felt like anger, felt like being torn apart and left in pieces. He wanted to come, he needed to come. He had reached an agonizing plateau of pain and pleasure.

It was the feel of Harry’s lips against his throat, soft and warm, that sent Draco over the edge. His whole body tightened, his muscles straining and aching. The pleasure positively bloomed, starting in the depths of his gut and exploding outwards. Draco’s vision went white as he came, entirely suffused by the sensation as it tore its way through his body.

Harry’s hand was still on his cock and he was still buried deep in Draco’s arse, but the thrusts of his hips were erratic and sharp and when Harry came, he let out a full body shiver, a tremble from head to foot, and Draco felt his warmth flood his body.

Draco was still coming. At least he thought he was. He didn’t really know. All he knew was that he felt flayed as pleasure was wrung from him in aching, pulsing waves. 

Harry released him and Draco collapsed limply into the bed. He felt momentarily bereft as Harry slipped from his body, taking with him his comforting warmth. But Draco couldn’t move. He was wrecked, entirely spent, loose and floating. He nestled his face into the soft cotton of the pillowcase, smelling the soothing freshness of laundry soap, and focused on his breathing.

And then Harry’s heat returned as he curled around Draco’s back, tucking Draco into his chest and holding him close with one arm.

It took a moment, but Draco slowly became aware of the world around him again. Harry‘s nose was nuzzled behind Draco’s ear and he was breathing so softly Draco almost wondered if he’d fallen asleep. Then he spoke.

“Did I hurt you?”

Draco hummed. “Hurt me? No.”

Harry’s arm around his chest tightened slightly.

“I can get a bit…intense,” he said.

“You mean you’re a bloody animal,” Draco said with a soft chuckle.

Harry huffed a breathy laugh. “A bit, yeah. You’re okay though?”

“Okay? I’m utterly wrecked, thanks. You’re going to have to pour me back into my trousers because I don’t think I’m going to walk properly for a week.”

He could practically feel Harry frowning. “No trousers.”

“Ever? Now, that’s just unreasonable.”

Harry was nuzzling against his ear and it wasn’t totally disgusting. It was maybe even a little sweet.

“Never. We’re staying here,” he said.

“And if you get hungry? I’ve already seen your insatiable hunger first hand.”

He could feel Harry smiling against the back of his neck and perhaps Draco’s word choice could have been a bit better just then, but he couldn’t really be blamed, what with his brain still mush.

“If you say something as filthy and depraved as you’re thinking right now, I swear to god Potter, I’ll shove your arse right on the floor.”

Harry did the snort giggle that Draco didn’t hate as much as he thought he did.

“Oh, now you’re a prude?” Harry teased.

“Oh shut it, you. You already admitted you like my…what was it...primness? I know it gets your cock hard, Potter. You can’t pretend otherwise now.”

“So, you’re talking this way because you want to go again?” Harry asked, the smirk clear in his voice.

“Are you trying to kill me?” Draco squawked.

“So, maybe later then?”

Draco clucked. “You’re incorrigible. What’s wrong with you?”

“I’ll cook if you skip the trousers,” Harry promised.

*****

Draco didn’t skip the trousers, but Harry cooked anyway, then proceeded to eat most of it himself. But Draco didn’t mind because Harry looked rather nice in his kitchen, shirtless and sporting a love bite on his throat that Draco had no intention of telling him about in hopes that he wouldn’t spell it away just yet.

Harry ate sitting on Draco’s kitchen table while Draco sat in a chair and sipped his tea. Harry was always sitting on the furniture wrong and it was annoying as all hell, but it also made Draco smile. And when Harry caught him at it, he smiled back.

“I knew you liked me,” he said.

“Hm,” Draco said, smirking. “I’m undecided.”

“Still?” Potter said, grinning now. “My god, you’re a tough nut to crack.”

He propped his foot on the seat of the chair, between Draco’s thighs and pushed the chair out with a little kick. He sat himself right down in Draco’s lap, straddling his hips, arms looped around Draco’s neck.

“I’m starting to think you don’t know how to use furniture properly,” Draco said with a pleased huff.

“Possibly. You can teach me later. Now, tell me you like me,” Harry demanded

“I will not,” Draco sipped his tea, struggling to get the cup around Harry’s embrace.

“Please?” Harry kissed his neck.

“No chance.”

“Say, ‘Harry, you’re clever, and funny, and incredibly fit and I like you quite a lot.’”

“Your arrogance knows no bounds.”

“Say it,” he growled and bit Draco’s neck at the same time as he shifted his hips, grinding down hard against him.

Draco dropped his teacup and it shattered on the floor. Harry vanished it with a wave of his hand and Draco snogged him. He snogged the bloody fuck out of him, and when he threw Harry down on the floor and ravaged him, Harry just laughed and wrapped his legs around him.

They rutted and kissed on the floor and Draco ended up ruining his trousers, to which Harry looked terribly smug.

The floor was hard and unforgiving and Draco’s back was screaming in protest, but Harry was tucked into Draco’s neck and dragging his fingertips across Draco’s chest and it felt quite nice.

“Okay,” Draco said with a put-upon sigh. “I like you.”

He could feel Harry’s smile against his neck. “I knew it.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Never.”

Draco kissed the top of his head. “Idiot.”

They peeled themselves off the floor eventually, at which time Draco declared them disgusting and bullied Potter into the shower. Clean, warm, and wrung entirely dry, they stumbled off to bed. Draco wasn’t sure if Harry would want to go home, but the insufferable git was unconscious and snoring softly as soon as his head hit Draco’s pillow. Draco probably should have woken him, but he didn’t. Instead, he crawled under the sheets next to him, curled his body around him like a comma and fell asleep, nose buried in his hair.

There was nothing particularly likeable about Harry Potter. That was, if you discounted his startlingly loud laugh and the way it made Draco go hot all over - especially when Draco realized that it was something only a lucky few were privy to hearing. You’d also have to ignore that Harry was unbelievably fit, bossy as all get out, and an excellent shag. It was easy to hate Harry because he was powerful and capable and bloody intimidating entirely by accident, but he was also warm, thoughtful, and selfless – also by accident. It was hateful that Harry thought Draco’s magic tasted like ladies’ perfume, even though he protested that desperately while laughing hysterically. It was equally hateful that no matter how hard Draco tried to pretend otherwise, Harry managed to see right to the core of him.

There was plenty to dislike about Harry Potter, but that didn’t change the fact that Draco was a little bit in love with the mad bastard. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> [Come find me on Tumblr ](https://the-sinking-ship.tumblr.com/)and let's shout about Drarry into the void, yeah??


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